


Just a Fool's Hope

by noalinnea



Category: Sherlock RPF - Fandom, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noalinnea/pseuds/noalinnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict comes to New Zealand for work. Or doesn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Fool's Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dirty lies, all of it.

His knock on the door was answered with something that resembled an annoyed grunt, followed by an unmistakable sigh of exasperation.

"Yes?" Martin all but barked and Benedict knew exactly what kind of frown he would be met with if he dared to open the door now. Which he would do in a second, of course. Experience had told him that Martin was best dealt with with a healthy amount of boldness. Especially on a day like this. It was late, it had been raining all day and they had worked for ten hours straight. He knew that all that Martin probably wanted right then was to get out of his wet clothes, retreat to his couch with a book and a cup of tea and pretend that the world didn't exist. But his steps had followed him nevertheless, invariably. It had been too damn long since they had last seen each other and he refused to forever take all of Martin's mood swings into consideration and dance around him like a skittish horse. Not tonight. Not again. Or never again, actually, that was what he had promised himself, back then, in London, when he last had woken up next to him. And maybe Martin would accuse him of being selfish- no, he most definitely would- but Benedict wanted to be selfish. Just this once. He had wanted to be selfish ever since he had stepped out of that damn plane a week ago. And all of those times he had picked up his phone during the past months, his thumb hovering over Martin's number and never hitting dial because he just hadn't been able to work up the courage to actually do so.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he reached for the door knob with a badly shaking hand and pushed open the door.

Just as anticipated, the frown was there, firmly locked into place. To expect anything else would have been delusional, Benedict was aware of that, and yet- he would have preferred not to be faced with Martin staring at him with eyebrows raised in silent accusation, immovable as a bloody marble statue.

A simple nod would have been enough, He thought fleetingly, more than enough even, but Martin just shook his head.

"Really, Benedict?" he asked, and made his name almost sound like an insult. "Today? Of all days?"

Benedict fought to keep his face impassive and his eyes fixed on Martin's. It's a game, he reminded himself, when he felt his chest constrict.

"I’m not going to be here forever."

Martin let out a sound that vaguely resembled a chuckle. "No, you most certainly won't be."

Benedict shrugged, his hand still on the door knob, the rain still trickling down his neck. "That's why I'm here. And does it really make a difference which day we're doing this?"

Martin's frown deepened. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his thumb over his forehead a couple of times, a clear sign of irritation. "It does, and you know it."

He did. Of course he knew. But he would be damned if he backed down now. He was so tired of this game, Martin's little game. Boldness. And recklessness, probably. Did he really have anything left do lose? Certainly not his dignity, that ship had sailed long ago.

"Can I come in?" he asked just for form's sake before he simply stepped into the trailer and closed the door behind himself.

"Haven't you already?" Martin said with a shrug and a sigh and turned away, proceeding to unbutton his wet cardigan.

Benedict stared at the back of his head for a moment, at his shoulders, stubborn and relentless. Indeed, he thought, some things never changed, regardless of how much you wanted them to change. And probably that was why he never had called. Because he hadn't been sure if he would be able to take the answer. Just as he wasn't so sure anymore all of a sudden that he would be able to take Martin's reaction to his visit. Maybe it would be easier to just turn around, walk out of the door and never look back. Only that that was what he had been trying to do for that last eight months.

"You know, I thought you'd finally take the hint," Martin said matter-of-factly, while he peeled off his cardigan to fling it over the back of a chair. "When I left for New fucking Zealand without as much as a kiss." With a smile that could have been a grimace just as well he turned back to Benedict:

"But here you are, chipper and hopeful as always, aren't you?"

Yes, Benedict thought, here I am; cold, wet and desperate. You have no idea how desperate.

Martin leaned back against the small kitchen counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Benedict allowed his eyes to stray away from Martin's for a second while he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the couch. He took his time to roll up his sleeves, the right one first, then the left one, with exactly the fine-tuned accuracy that would cause Martin to start twitching with impatience.

He searched Martin's eyes again and tried a careful smile. This was familiar ground after all, even if it always made him wonder how on earth this could ever have become familiar ground.

"Come on now, Martin, you did not seriously expect me to turn down an offer like this just to humour you." He paused for effect. Martin hated it to be addressed with his name. "Or did you?"

Attack and retreat. It had never been any different. And even if he ended up with a bloody nose more often than not, the moments when he didn't were worth it. And he had the feeling that this would be one of those moments.

"No, Benedict, I didn't." A cheap retaliation. Benedict waited just a second too long to lower his head in order to hide his little triumphant smirk. Almost there.

"And now what, huh?" Martin's voice was still cold. "You want to catch up?"

Benedict sighed and haphazardly picked up one of the books that were strewn all over the place. "Actually, yes. You know, like normal people do." 

And suddenly there it was, the tiniest hint of a twitch around Martin's lips. Halfway to a smile.

"He's haughty. Just as haughty as your Sherlock, do you realize that?" he asked, arms still crossed in front of his chest, but his tone had changed.

Got you, Benedict thought. "Well, of course he is," he said slowly, as if waited for a particularly dumb listener to catch up. "Just like my high-functioning sociopath my men-slaying dragon is sculpted after you."

Martin just cocked an eyebrow. His eyes never left Benedicts when he pushed himself away from the counter and grabbed the hem of his shirt. "I'm going to take a shower," he said, his tone almost conversational, before he pulled the shirt over his head. "I smell of Hobbit."

"You've been working out," Benedict said, fighting the impulse to close the remaining distance between them.

Martin scowled, scratching the back of his neck. "I haven't. But all I ever get to do here is to run and fight and climb mountains, fake ones, most of the times." He stepped into the tiny shower to turn on the water. Benedict heard him curse while he fiddled with the temperature regulation and tried to hide a smile.

"There," Martin finally said with a sigh. And over his shoulder he asked: "Are you coming?"

Benedict felt his throat tighten along with his groin. "I wasn't-" He let out the breath he had been holding. "I wasn't so sure you wanted me to."

Martin didn't miss one beat. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, turning back around and taking a step towards Benedict. 

And that was it. There he was, right there, as if he never had been anywhere else, warm, and solid, and real, and he tasted just the way he always did, smelled the way he always did. His hands cupped Benedict’s cheeks for a second before they found their way under his shirt, his touch sure, his fingers leaving goose bumps in their trail. Without further ado he dragged the shirt over Benedict’s head, greeting him with one of those intimate smiles when he emerged on the other side, breathless and tousled, with one of those genuine smiles that always made Benedict’s heart skip a beat. He was impossibly hard already when Martin finally pushed down his pants and stepped out of his own before dragging him under the spray and pinning him against the wall.

Later, seconds, minutes, hours, when they clung to each other, trembling and panting, Martin's lips found his brow and his fingers curled around Benedict's. "It's damn good to see you, Ben," he said, his voice soft, his touch gentle, startlingly gentle, and all Benedict could do was nod, nod while he relied on the water to carry away his silent tears and tried to suppress the flutter of hope in his chest.


End file.
